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they saw him emerge in the field across the road. He swaggered across to them aglow with his own heroism. As he entered the gate he was rewarded by the old light of
adoration in Joan’s blue eyes, but on full sight of him it quickly turned to consternation. His appearance was beyond description. There was a malicious smile on Cuthbert’s face.
    ‘Do thumthing elth,’ he urged him. ‘Go on, do thumthing elth.’
    ‘Oh, William,’ said Joan anxiously, ‘You’d better not.’
    But the gods had sent madness to William. He was drunk with the sense of his own prowess. He was regardless of consequences.
    He pointed to a little window high up in the coalhouse.
    ‘I can climb up that an’ slide down the coal inside. That’s what I can do. There’s nothin’ I can’t do. I—’
    ‘All right,’ urged Cuthbert, ‘If you can do that, do it, and I’ll believe you can do anything.’
    For Cuthbert, with unholy glee, foresaw William’s undoing.
    ‘Oh, William,’ pleaded Joan, ‘I know you’re brave, but don’t—’

    ‘I CAN CLIMB UP THAT AN’ SLIDE DOWN THE COAL INSIDE. THAT’S WHAT I CAN DO. THERE’S NOTHIN’ I CAN’T DO!’ SAID WILLIAM.
    But William was already doing it. They saw his disappearance into the little window, they heard plainly his descent down the coal heap inside, and in less than a minute he appeared in the
doorway. He was almost unrecognisable. Coal dust adhered freely to the moist consistency of the mud and lichen already clinging to his suit, as well as to his hair and face. His collar had been
almost torn away from its stud. William himself was smiling proudly, utterly unconscious of his appearance. Joan was plainly wavering between horror and admiration. Then the moment for which
Cuthbert had longed arrived.
    ‘Children! Come in now!’
    Cuthbert, clean and dainty, entered the drawing-room first and pointed an accusing finger at the strange figure which followed.
    ‘He’th been climbing treeth an’ crawling in the mud, an’ rolling down the coalth. He’th a nathty rough boy’
    A wild babel arose as William entered.
    ‘ William! ’
    ‘You dreadful boy!’
    ‘Joan, come right away from him. Come over here.’
    ‘What will your father say?’
    ‘William, my carpet! ’
    For the greater part of the stream’s bed still clung to William’s boots.
    Doggedly William defended himself.
    ‘I was showin’ ‘em how to do things. I was bein’ a host. I was tryin’ to make ’em happy! I—’
    ‘William, don’t stand there talking. Go straight upstairs to the bathroom.’
    It was the end of the first battle, and undoubtedly William had lost. Yet William had caught sight of the smile on Cuthbert’s face and William had decided that the smile was something to
be avenged.
    But fate did not favour him. Indeed, fate seemed to do the reverse.
    The idea of a children’s play did not emanate from William’s mother, or Joan’s. They were both free from guilt in that respect. It emanated from Mrs de Vere Carter. Mrs de Vere
Carter was a neighbour with a genius for organisation. There were few things she did not organise till their every other aspect or aim was lost but that of ‘organisation’. She also had
what amounted practically to a disease for ‘getting up’ things. She ‘got up’ plays, and bazaars, and pageants, and concerts. There were, in fact, few things she did not
‘get up’. It was the sight of Joan and Cuthbert walking together down the road, the sun shining on their golden curls, that had inspired her with the idea of ‘getting up’ a
children’s play. And Joan must be the Princess and little Cuthbert the Prince.
    Mrs de Vere Carter was to write the play herself. At first she decided on Cinderella. Unfortunately there was a dearth of little girls in the neighbourhood, and therefore it was decided at a
meeting composed of Mrs de Vere Carter, Mrs Clive, Mrs Brown (William’s mother), and Ethel (William’s sister), that William could easily be